


(if we could wake up) when the day is new

by heydoeydoey



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (also my Russian is way rusty sorry), First Time, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, an unacceptably adorable use of Russian nicknames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heydoeydoey/pseuds/heydoeydoey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It ends the way it began, with the strike of a match.  </p>
<p>Or, Illya can always spot a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(if we could wake up) when the day is new

It ends the way it began, with the strike of a match.

Napoleon watches the papers burn, their edges blackening and curling, and thinks of those orders, nearly a decade ago.  Kill the Russian. Then, it had seemed easy. Well, not easy. Straightforward.

But also impossible. He had known as soon as the order came through that he would disobey it, even if he didn’t quite understand why, then.  He remembers glancing across the helicopter, watching Illya receive the same order, and catching the softness, the reluctance in Illya’s eyes.  What it must have been like, growing up in Stalin’s Russia with a face ready for a fight and eyes begging for something else entirely.  Illya may be the best the KGB ever had, but his eyes always give him away.  Hell, even when his whole body is coiled tight as a spring and his hands are shaking with the need to _destroy_ , his eyes are soft, vulnerable.   

Napoleon has the opposite problem.  He’s always been attractive – he learned to con before he could talk, learned how to use his face to slither out of trouble – but his mother always said he had hard eyes, even as a baby. _Oh, how you used to glare at me_ , she’d say.

His own hard eyes stare up at him for a moment, before fire warps and takes the photo.

Next to him, Illya sighs.

“All right, Peril?”

Illya shrugs. It’s a very non-Illya gesture. Illya is rarely ambivalent about anything.

“I was thinking about that day in San Francisco,” Illya says, and takes a sip of his drink. His mouth curls up in the corners, his smile sly and secret. 

Officially, they were gathering intel on a weapons smuggler.  Unofficially, they arrived in San Francisco a day late (through some bureaucratic error or another), missed their window with the target, and instead spent the day as tourists. There had been hell to pay after, from Waverly and Gaby, but it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

“Do you remember the café in the Castro?” Illya continues. “You went to buy a newspaper and while you were gone the waitress brought our coffees.  She asked me how long we’d been together, said we were a beautiful couple. I never corrected her. It was the novelty, I think.”

That was four years ago. There is talk about them, because spies by nature are a gossipy bunch, and the spies at U.N.C.L.E. are no different. But it’s usually sharp, tinged with malice and derision, and (mostly) baseless.  A waitress in a café saying something kind is a novelty indeed.

Napoleon hesitates. They have never discussed this, never acknowledged the time in Budapest when Napoleon had nearly died and Illya had stayed up the whole night, begging him in Russian not to; or the night in Paris when there had been a mix up with the hotel and they had spent the night curled together in a single bed, comfortably entwined like lovers; or the dozens of times over the last ten years when they have teetered on the precipice of change, and one or both of them leapt back instead; or after that first mission, when Napoleon found himself with a choice of his gun or Illya’s watch, and for the first time in his life picked the harder option.

Napoleon watches their passports – both real and aliases – burn, watches them kill each other a decade too late, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin disappearing into ash and smoke. They’re going their separate ways, Napoleon’s time served, Illya’s loan from the KGB past due, and suddenly it all just seems pointless.

“For someone so obsessed with time,” Napoleon says bitterly, glancing at Illya’s fingers tapping out the rhythm of the second hand of his father’s watch, “you’ve always had terrible timing.”

Illya’s fingers stutter, and then he slides his hands into his pockets.  He’s hurt, Napoleon can see it in those damned eyes.  To hurt him was Napoleon’s intent, of course, but it isn’t satisfying in the least. 

“And you are a coward still,” Illya says, his tone heavy with disappointment.  He pushes off the railing and crosses back through the French doors into his apartment.  Something like panic scrabbles in Napoleon’s chest.  This is not how it is supposed to go, not how they’re supposed to end. Even if Illya is just predictably sulking in the bathroom, this is not how Napoleon wanted to spend their last day.

He leaves their papers still burning and follows Illya back inside. 

Illya has lived in this apartment for six years.  Gaby helped him choose it; Napoleon helped him find furniture.  He wonders what will happen to it when Illya leaves. He doesn’t want to think about it sitting empty, or of someone else moving in and plastering over the bullet hole in the wall by the kitchen window, or replacing the broken tile behind the bathroom sink that Napoleon is sure Illya punched but Illya never admitted to, or taking down the drawing of Illya above the fireplace that Napoleon had done while truly, spectacularly drunk and Illya had framed to spite him.

The chair where Illya sits to play chess is worn and faded from use; the couch cushion closest to that chair has a dip that fits Napoleon’s body perfectly, and he’s certain that if he were to look in the hall closet he would find a pair or two of his own shoes. There are clothes that belong to him in the spare bedroom, and he keeps a toothbrush in the medicine cupboard. All in the name of convenience, of course. His apartment is uptown, sometimes too far away to contemplate getting to after a late night of drinking and chess. (He’s getting good, but he’ll never beat Illya.  He never wants to.)

He expects to find Illya in the bedroom, packing.  But he isn’t there, and neither are his suitcases.  Instead, he finds him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and holding something in his hands.  At first Napoleon thinks it’s a chessboard because it’s the same black and white pattern, but it’s too rectangular, and after a second he realizes it’s a wrapped gift.

“Is it done?” Illya asks.

“More or less. Still smoking.”

“This is probably not the right time,” Illya says coldly, “but this is for you.  From me.”

Illya shoves the parcel into his hands.  It’s wrapped meticulously – not that Napoleon would expect anything else – and it seems a shame to tear the paper, but he suspects Illya will only be angrier if he doesn’t open it.

He compromises, peeling up the edges of the paper to keep from tearing it, and sliding it off neatly. He finds himself holding a framed photograph, one he’s never seen before, and doesn’t remember being taken.

It’s the balcony in Rome where this all began, and he thinks it must have been after Waverly announced their new appointment to U.N.C.L.E. because Illya’s glass is empty and Napoleon’s is full. They both lean against the railing, and there’s something tender in the way Napoleon is smiling at Illya. He didn’t think his face could look like that, so unguarded and open, but here’s the proof in front of him.

“Who knew Gaby was such a photographer?” Napoleon says, his voice catching in his throat.

“It is a good skill for a spy.”

“We look young. I forgot I could look that good,” he quips, mostly because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

Illya rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The last ten years have been kinder to Illya than to Napoleon, but Illya is younger, too. And far less vain.

Napoleon looks back down at the photo.  He thinks about where it should go in his apartment, and realizes the only place he really wants to put it is on the mantel in the next room. Which is deeply problematic for many reasons, but mostly because he doesn’t live here (despite all appearances to the contrary) and soon neither will Illya.

“Thank you,” he says. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Illya waves a hand dismissively. “I did not expect anything.”

“I should’ve, though.  Going away present.”

Illya frowns. “Going away?  Where are you going?”

Napoleon blinks.  Illya usually isn’t slow, but the English to Russian back to English does occasionally trip him up even now. “I’m not.  You are. Back to Russia and the KGB, remember?”

For a long moment, Illya just looks at him, and for once Napoleon can’t read his face. Then he laughs.

“Not a very special day,” Illya grins.  It’s something of a shorthand between them, has been since Waverly said it to Illya during that first mission.  Waverly hates it in the good-natured way he hates everything except Gaby and a good English scone with clotted cream.

Napoleon scowls. “What?  What am I missing?”

“I am not going back to Russia.”

For a long moment, Napoleon waits for the punch line.  When it doesn’t come, he says, “But the KGB—

“Needs an agent here.  In New York.”

“That’s...” Napoleon searches for the right word.  Stupid, probably.  Dangerous, definitely. Suicidal, maybe. Illya knows all of that already, though. It’s the life he chose twenty years ago. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You did not ask.  Thought you knew.”

“You said you were going back to the KGB.  What did you expect me to think?”

“Stop shouting.” Illya says tersely, his eyes darting towards the still-open balcony door.

Napoleon inhales a shallow breath.  He can’t help looking at the photo of them again. “I didn’t think it would end like this,” he admits.

“Like what?”

“At all, I suppose.”

“You are spy after all.” Illya smirks.

Napoleon shakes his head. “No, I’ll always be a thief.  Nothing I can do will ever change that, especially to them.”

Illya’s brow furrows into a deep frown.  “Waverly said—

“They offered me job?”

Illya nods and Napoleon can’t meet his gaze.  It’s true that the CIA and U.N.C.L.E. both expressed an interest in keeping him, but his years in the CIA count for nothing except his prison sentence. He would be starting from nowhere, all over again.  And as for U.N.C.L.E., he doesn’t much see the point in sticking around if Illya isn’t.

(Gaby had called him a baby and insisted they could still work with Illya, but it wouldn’t be the same.  And inevitably they’d end up working _against_ each other, somewhere down the road, and Napoleon can’t stomach that.)

“They did.”

“And?”

“I turned it down, obviously.”

“So what will you do?”

“Find myself a nice, rich heiress.” Napoleon tries to joke, but it falls flat.

Illya looks deeply unimpressed. “I know you better than that, now.”

Napoleon swallows, his mouth suddenly too dry. “I don’t know,” he says. It’s the truth. He doesn’t know what he’ll do now, without U.N.C.L.E. sending him to every corner of the earth, without Illya by his side.  He sets the photo on the counter beside him, and finds himself wishing he could go back to the beginning. Not to change anything, but to have more time. Savor it.  It had seemed endless, then, his sentence stretching out ahead of him forever, but somehow ten years have disappeared in the blink of an eye.

“All right, Cowboy?” Illya is still frowning, and Napoleon has to ball his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching out and smoothing the deep frown lines around Illya’s mouth.

“London,” Napoleon blurts.

Confusion crosses Illya’s face, and Napoleon is sure that he’s running through a series of code words and shorthand, trying to figure out what Napoleon means.

“I might move to London.  Now that this is over.” Napoleon elaborates. “I’ve always liked it there.”

“You hate London.  It rains too much. English girls don’t find you charming. You’re banned from all the museums. You had incident last time with 007.” Illya’s lips twitch in amusement, which is a far sight better than frowning but it makes Napoleon feel foolish and exposed.

“I think you should stay.  Here.” Illya says.

“I can’t stay in New York,” Napoleon scoffs. “I don’t have a job, and working for U.N.C.L.E. just barely covered my rent.”

Illya rolls his eyes. “So we are pretending your bank account in Switzerland does not exist?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not.” Illya nods. “Besides, this is not what I meant. I think you should stay here, with me.”

“With you,” Napoleon repeats.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Lie.” Illya says. He smiles wolfishly.

Illya takes a step closer, and then another, and then a third, and he’s right there in Napoleon’s space; close enough Napoleon can see the fine wrinkles around his eyes and smell the citrusy scent of his aftershave. Illya plants his hands on the counter on either side of Napoleon, effectively trapping him.

Sometimes, Napoleon forgets that Illya is dangerous.  Sitting opposite him playing chess, it can be hard to see the man Napoleon first met, the one who nearly killed him in that bathroom and barely broke a sweat.  And Napoleon isn’t afraid of Illya anymore, but he can’t deny with Illya looming over him like this that a shiver of something almost like fear runs down his spine.

Illya looks at him, all stubborn chin and gentle eyes and Napoleon wishes he’d look somewhere else.

“I do not know what you are thinking,” Illya says quietly. “Never.”

“Lie,” Napoleon says, but Illya shakes his head.  He moves his hand to Napoleon’s face, his thumb tracing across Napoleon’s cheekbone softly.

“Tell me if I am wrong.” Illya whispers, before leaning in to close the distance between them, his lips finding Napoleon’s.

He’s not wrong, of course he’s not wrong, he’s never wrong.

(Not that Napoleon is going to tell him that last part.)

Illya kisses like this is a chess match, all control and calculated risk. It’s maddening; Napoleon’s hands shake the way they did the time he and Illya had to parachute into Japan, and until now Napoleon’s never felt more out of control than he did that day, but Illya’s hands are steady for once.

“Nervous?” Illya grins, his fingers moving nimbly down Napoleon’s shirt, making quick work of the buttons.

“No.”

“Lie,” Illya says delightedly, and trails a row of kisses across Napoleon’s collarbone.  Napoleon shivers.

Illya steers him out of the kitchen and Napoleon follows easily. A breeze wafts in through the open balcony doors, carrying the smell of smoke and singed paper.

Illya pushes Napoleon’s shirt off his shoulders and lets it drop on the floor somewhere in the hallway.  Napoleon reaches for the hem of Illya’s ridiculous turtleneck (never mind it’s summer and nearly eighty degrees), tugging it up, exposing a smooth expanse of warm skin.  Illya’s chest is littered with scars – Napoleon’s too – and he can’t help leaning forward, pressing a kiss to the long one just left of Illya’s heart.  He knows most of Illya’s injuries, but this one pre-dates them.

Illya’s bedroom is bright, airy, and predictably pristine. Napoleon hasn’t spent much time in here, mostly out of self-preservation.  He takes a moment to look around, and his eyes land on a picture on the dresser. The boy in the middle of the photo could only be Illya, and Napoleon assumes the people on either side of him are his parents.

“Before my father was sent away,” Illya murmurs. 

“You look like him.” Napoleon says and Illya nods.

“Not always good thing.”

Napoleon knows what that’s like.  His looks and his name were just about the only thing his father gave him before disappearing.  He never met the man, but there was a photograph in their house growing up that started to look more and more like Napoleon’s reflection the older he got. _You’re his spitting image, Napoleon, he’d be so proud_ , he remembers his mother saying the day he enlisted, but he’s not sure any man who abandoned him the day he was born can claim any pride.

Illya kisses Napoleon again, drawing his attention away from the photo and thoughts of his own father.  Napoleon slides his hands lightly down Illya’s sides, enjoying how Illya squirms ticklishly.

Illya pushes him towards the bed and he goes willingly, flopping backwards and pulling the Russian down with him.  Illya sprawls on top of him, wonderfully heavy, and Napoleon hooks his leg around Illya’s waist to keep him there.  He groans when Illya rolls his hips against Napoleon’s. They’re both hard, and Napoleon cants his hips, chasing the friction of Illya against him.

Illya laughs, a deep, low rumble that Napoleon’s only heard a handful of times before. “Patience, Cowboy,” Illya says in Napoleon’s ear.

Napoleon shakes his head, “I’ve been patient ten years, Peril.”

Illya’s eyes darken. “Ten years?”

Napoleon isn’t sure whether to laugh or kiss him.  He settles for both.  “Yes,” he says against Illya’s mouth. “Obviously.”

Illya’s mouth grins against his, and any thoughts of patience disappear. They make quick work of the rest of their clothes, and another time Napoleon might care about his suit scattered and crumpled throughout Illya’s apartment, but today he doesn’t.

Illya grinds his hips against Napoleon again, and reaches between them for Napoleon’s cock.  He strokes lightly a few times, more teasing than anything.

Napoleon pants, “Illya—please.”

“Please _what_ , Leonichik?”

The nickname throws him for a moment, but turnabout is fair play. “Fuck me, Illyusha.”

Illya shivers, his carefully maintained control starting to fracture, and it was worth learning Russian for this alone. 

Illya still takes his time, the bastard, teasing Napoleon with his fingers and his tongue for an interminable amount of time. Napoleon expects Illya to fuck like he fights, fast and hard and brutal, but instead he moves slowly, looking at Napoleon with soft, tender eyes. 

If it were anyone else, Napoleon might joke that he’s hardly a blushing virgin, but this is Illya and Napoleon has waited far too long for this to ruin it with a snide remark.  

Still, it doesn’t stop him wrapping his leg around Illya’s waist tighter, urging him _harder_ and _faster_ and _more_ in Russian, until they’re both so close and shaking with need. Illya reaches between them, wrapping his hand around Napoleon’s cock and jerking roughly, totally out of rhythm but it’s enough to send Napoleon over the edge.  Illya follows a few moments later.

They lay together, both breathing heavily.  Illya tips his head towards Napoleon, smiling.

“What?”

“You will stay.” Illya looks far too smug for his own good, and Napoleon huffs out a resigned sigh.

“I thought you couldn’t tell what I’m thinking.”

“I can’t.  But you will stay.”

“It would be easier not to.”

Illya nods. “Yes.  But you don’t like easy. You like safes that are impossible to crack and ugly modern art and disobeying orders.”

Illya taps his fingers on Napoleon’s shoulder, keeping time with the ticking of his watch.  

“I’ll stay.” Napoleon says, as if he’s conceding some kind of victory, when really Illya is right (again).  Napoleon was always going to stay. 

“Good choice, Leonichik.”

“I’ll leave if you keep calling me that.”

“Lie.” Illya laughs.


End file.
